


and most things in between

by alexanger



Series: a hell of a feeling [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Chronic Illness, Trans Character, continued discussion of suicidal thoughts, this is a lot lighter than the last one though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: Getting to okay is an uphill battle, and it doesn't seem like it's worth the fight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> content warning again for discussion of suicidal thoughts.

The sound of someone in his apartment jars James awake. He sits upright and immediately regrets it when his legs scream in protest. It takes him a while to surface fully from unconsciousness, and being startled out of it like this makes his whole body ache.

There’s a thud, a tinkle, and a muffled, “fuck,” and James relaxes. There’s no mistaking that gravelly voice.

“Hey, Thomas,” he calls as he settles back in bed.

The door creaks open, and the silhouette of Thomas appears, lit from behind by the hall light. From that angle, his hair blazes like a halo at the edges. He towers. Jem feels small and warm.

“Hey, Jemmy jeans,” Thomas says.

James smiles. “Every time,” he says.

“Jamba juice.” Thomas grins. “Jiraffe.” 

“You’re the worst. How was your flight?”

Thomas comes into the room, all rumpled jeans and huge purple hoodie. “It was okay,” he says. He perches on the edge of the bed and asks, “You alright with touch?”

“Yeah,” James says. Thomas puts a hand on his arm and gently strokes, and just like that James is dozing off. He closes his eyes and sighs as Thomas’s hand moves to his chest and rubs some of the tension away.

“You ready to get up, or do you wanna sleep a little longer?”

“Mmmm.” It’s hard to think. James drifts for a moment, turning over the question in his mind. He doesn’t worry about taking too long to respond; he knows Thomas will give him the time. Finally he licks his lips and says, “I want to be with you. Maybe naptime on the couch. I want my head in your lap.”

“My dick is a face magnet,” Thomas says.

James groans. “Gross.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, Java lamp. You know you want your face all up in my lap.”

“More than anything,” James mutters.

“When was your last shot? How far into your cycle are you?”

James pauses, counts backward in his head. “Uhh,” he manages finally, “maybe a month ago?”

Thomas frowns. “Are you - you know - menstruating?”

“Not yet.”

“So we should get a shot in you. Do you have any T lying around?”

“Probably? Check the bathroom.”

Thomas gets up, leaves to rummage around in the bathroom, and then returns with a syringe, two needles, a little glass vial of testosterone, and an alcohol swab. James kicks the blankets down and shuffles his sweatpants to his knees as Thomas draws testosterone into the syringe. He has a moment to be ashamed of the boxers he’s been wearing for four days, and then Thomas is swabbing his thigh and popping the needle in.

“Thanks,” James mutters.

“Don’t mention it, Jarimbo.” Thomas pauses, and then says, with a voice that’s almost but not quite horrified, “so I didn’t grab a bandaid or a cotton ball.”

“Yank,” says James, and when Thomas pops the needle out James slaps his hand on his leg and puts pressure on it.

“Not sanitary,” Thomas says.

“Not even a little,” James agrees. “But you’re the asshole who forgot the cotton ball.”

“Rude,” says Thomas.

James snorts. “Fuck off. Get me a bandaid and then help me carry my shit to the couch.”

Once he’s bandaged and his hands are washed - even though it’s his own blood,  _ any  _ blood is so unsanitary as to be considered a serious health risk, James tells Thomas sternly as he soaps up for the third time - the two of them gather up James’s comforter and pillows and manage to stagger to the couch. And if James has to lean on Thomas the whole way, if his legs will barely hold him - well, that’s fine. He gets there anyway.

With his head in Thomas’s lap, James feels a little more solid. A little more real. There’s something certain and sweet and aching in the way Thomas’s fingers swirl over his scalp and cheekbones, down his neck, stroking away the tension. It’s nice to have someone touch him again.

“Thanks,” James mumbles. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls.

“Don’t mention it,” Thomas says. “Good sensory feel. Good pressure on my lap. Feels nice.”

“Once I’m asleep you can take anything you want out of the fridge. There isn’t much but -” He cuts himself off as a yawn shudders through him, and then chokes out, “- but there’s a bottle of champagne. All yours.”

“Were you celebrating?”

James grins bitterly. “Something like that.”

Thomas’s hands stroke over his skin and rock him into sleep. He breathes in deep, savouring the swell of his lungs and the familiar scent of apple mango tango laundry detergent, grape e-cig vapour, and lavender peppermint chewing gum. Thomas is home, Thomas is  _ home, _ and James is safe.

Safe. Something he hasn’t been in so long.

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

James is woken up by light filtering through the blinds and smacking him in the face. “Inconsiderate,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. He can hear Thomas somewhere behind him and to his left, rustling plastic bags and rapping - which puts him in the kitchen, which means he’s gone grocery shopping, which means he’s spent money on James. Which is humiliating.

But also a relief.

Thomas raps a couple lines, pauses, raps them over a few times, varying the speed and cadence. Every so often he makes a chuckling noise and repeats a phrase rather than a whole line. In anyone else, it would be an annoying trait; but James loves it, loves anticipating how he’s going to say the line next time, loves knowing exactly what it its about a certain phrase that makes it stick in TJ’s head and tumble over and over again out of his mouth.

“New song?” James asks.

Thomas makes a soft noise, his usual reaction to being startled out of a script. It takes him a moment, but eventually he gathers himself and says, “no, it’s kinda old - just went through my old notebooks and found some lyrics I never used.”

“You should show them to me sometime. What did you get up to?”

“Did laundry, changed the bedsheets, picked up some food. What’s your food situation? No gluten, no soy, no peanuts, right? What else?”

“Dairy,” James says. “I’ve been drinking a lot of rice milk. Almond milk too. Almond flour is a good alternative for a lot of things -”

“Picked up a bunch of Rice Dream, so we’re good there. You want some tea?”

“Mm.”

There’s the sound of running water and then the clicking of the gas range. Suddenly Thomas appears in front of him with a handful of capsules and a glass of rice milk.

“It’s, like, 4 o’clock,” Thomas says. “I think it’s time for some drugs, Jambalaya.”

James accepts the handful of pills, tips them into his mouth, and tosses them back with the rice milk. “Thanks,” he says, and then he grimaces at the feeling of a pill stuck in his throat. Thomas knows that look; he disappears for a moment and then returns with half an orange, peeled and segmented. James crams one into his mouth and realizes just how hungry he is.

“Any dinner plans?” he mumbles through a mouthful of citrus.

“Thought I’d scramble some eggs and throw some peppers and shit in. Easy. And you need protein. And then I can give you a massage, try and straighten out your back, ‘cause it’s looking kinda - you know - yikes. I made a schedule, actually. Like, for tonight, and tomorrow, and kinda planned out the week.”

“I always forget how fucked up things get when you’re not planning my whole life.”

“You love it, Jentennial. Jhair spray.”

“Shut up,” James says, but he’s smiling.

“Jostler. Anyway, I figured tomorrow, we get some more cleaning done, get you in the bath -”

“I have a shower chair now. Got it after the last surgery.”

Thomas pauses, makes his noise, chews his lip a little, and then continues talking. His voice is a little shaky, the way it gets when James cuts him off. “Get you in the bath - or, you know, the shower - and then start making appointments to get you in to see your doctor. Maybe a referral for therapy.”

James’s heart aches with love. He wants desperately to tell Thomas just how deeply and thoroughly he loves him - loves him and his scripts, his repetitive rapping, the little fidget toys he keeps in all his pockets and leaves all over the apartment, the same purple hoodie he always wears.

Instead, he says, “well, clearly you have nothing better to do, so whatever. Let’s do it.”

And Thomas smiles at him, that glorious smile that breaks full over his face and lights his eyes, and it makes everything seem a little less unbearable.

 

* * *

 

“You have an appointment with the new therapist on Tuesday, and we’re seeing your GP in two hours,” Thomas says a few days later. He tosses his cellphone onto James’s bed.

“I don’t wanna,” says James from underneath his pillow. He’s stripped down to his boxers and sulking, because the two of them had gone to sleep cuddling and waking up without Thomas wrapped around him is jarring and unpleasant.

“Suck it up, Slim Jim. If you get up and go to the doctor with me today I’ll get you a surprise.”

“Meh,” says James.

“You can wear my hoodie there.”

James mulls it over. He’s so scrawny that he always drowns in Thomas’s hoodie, and it’s like walking around wrapped in a blanket.

“Fine,” he says. “But you have to buy me a hot chocolate on the way.”

“Cool. Deal.”

James hauls himself out of bed and manages to struggle into his clothes. His pants hang off of him, and even when they’re belted, they look absurd.

Thomas squints at him. “We should get you something that fits,” he says. “Those look shitty on you.”

James sticks out his tongue. “I’ll wear my sweats then.”

“Embarrassing,” Thomas says, “but acceptable. I'm buying you pants on the way home.”

“We'll see how I feel,” James tells him.

“Deal,” says Thomas. It’s a near perfect echo of the way James says it.

James holds a hand out to take Thomas’s hoodie. Thomas elects to put it on James instead and zip him up soundly. “Warm enough?” he asks. His face is close enough that James could easily lean forward and kiss him - kiss his full lips, feel the rasp of his facial hair against his skin -

“Yeah,” he says, and he drops his gaze and leans back.

He changes into his sweats while Thomas watches. He wonders if all dude buddies do this. Is it normal to just whip your pants off in front of your bros? Or is it just because Thomas has seen everything already?

Well, when someone helps you change your colostomy bag, it probably doesn’t matter if they see your underwear.

James touches the scar where the stoma was and cinches his sweatpants tight around his waist.

“Ready,” he says, and Thomas takes his arm and guides him outside for the first time in a couple of weeks.

 

* * *

 

“Doctors suck,” James says, standing just outside the office. He manages to hold himself together just long enough to pull Thomas into the stairwell and then bursts into furious tears.

Thomas envelopes him in a tight hug and James gratefully presses his face into the threadbare cotton of his best friend’s t-shirt. “I know, Jingle,” he says. “That was shitty. I’m sorry he did that.”

“You’d think after, like, a  _ year  _ of me correcting him every time he fucks up my pronouns or deadnames me, he’d figure it out -”

“He’s dense as shit,” Thomas says. “You have facial hair, dude. Cute little beard scruff. Even if he was just assuming off what you look like or what you sound like he’d be super wrong.”

“I should be able to trust my doctor.” He steps back and sniffs hard, trying in vain not to cover Thomas’s shirt in snot. “But this shit keeps happening and I realize that I  _ can’t  _ trust him, and it makes me just want to give up.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, and James swells with love. There’s no judgement there, no sign of exasperation or impatience.

“I’m tired,” he says.

“So we can find another doctor,” Thomas says, and that’s when James feels his heart sink. Maybe Thomas didn’t actually get it -

“Yeah,” he says, but he closes himself off.

“There’s always other doctors out there, Jacuzzi. I’ll do some searching and find you someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Okay? I can call, see how good they are at trans stuff -”

“It’s not just the doctor,” James says.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “What is it?”

“Everything. I’m tired of everything. What’s the point of any of this?”

Thomas opens his mouth, then seems to reconsider and just settles for nodding instead.

“I feel like I’m always pushing so hard to move forward, but I don’t get anywhere,” James says. “It’s all, like, ‘here’s this new immune suppressant, but surprise, it makes your mood meds not work!’ Or I get a referral to see a specialist and then I wait a thousand years and when I finally get in, they’re all like, ‘this is just in your head and there’s nothing actually wrong with you,’ like that one asshole did about my colitis -”

“I remember that,” Thomas says.

“There’s no one holding my hand through this. I have you and you do so much for me and you’re doing your best, but I just, for once, want someone to know what to do, because I don’t. I don’t have any idea how to do any of this. It’s exhausting and scary and I don’t want to keep having surgeries and doctor visits and med adjustments. You know social security is supposed to help with my meds? Doesn’t cover my pain pills. Apparently they don’t think those are essential medication. How am I supposed to afford them when I can’t work? And it took so long to get them to cover my immune shit! I need that so I don’t  _ die, _ Thomas! And they don’t care! They want me to die!”

“No one wants you to die, Jazzman,” Thomas says.

“The universe wants me to die,” James says. “And I’m gonna let it kill me. I can’t do this forever.”

Thomas is silent. All he does is pull James close again and rest his chin on the top of his head. James loves the height difference between them; he fits perfectly under Thomas’s chin and he feels like he’s been tucked into a safe little alcove away from anything that can hurt him.

That’s a dangerous feeling. He can’t get complacent. That’s how things get bad again.

“Okay, so it wants you to die,” says Thomas. “If we can’t do anything about that, then okay, it’s gonna have to happen. But you don’t have to speed it up.”

James is silent.

“Don’t do anything to yourself, Jemmy. Okay? Give me some time to try and get shit together for you. Trust me. There are times that feel good, right? So I’ll make sure you have times where things feel good. I’ll make you dinner and we’ll watch a movie tonight. We don’t even have to have the sound on if it’s too much. You know subtitles are easier for me anyway. Okay?”

“How many more times can you say okay?” James mumbles against Thomas’s chest.

“I can always tell when you’re feeling better because you start bullying me,” Thomas says.

James can’t help but giggle a little at that. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift. He times his breathing to Thomas’s heart, drawing air in for five beats and then out for five. It’s a little faster than he’d like but it’s repetitive and soothing and Thomas is so close, the solidity of his muscle and the dependable thudding of his heart and the swell of his lungs and the scent of him, all the things that James loves, all the things that make James ache. How long has it been since he fell in love? How long has he been pining like this, clinging to every brief moment of intimacy in the hopes that it might feel like Thomas could ever love him back?

“Can you take me home?” he asks.

“Yeah, buddy,” Thomas says. It’s close enough that James can pretend he said  _ baby _ instead, and even that makes him feel just a little bit warmer.

It’s pathetic - he knows it is - to imagine Thomas calling him  _ baby,  _ but it’s not like Thomas will ever find out.

And really, it’s such a tiny thing, such a small comfort, and he needs all the comfort he can get. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos validate my existence. chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)
> 
> thanks to amber, who is the best at punching bears


End file.
